Necromantica Daemonica
by juggernaut715
Summary: An in-depth look at the mechanics of a resurrection of demonic nature, its purpose, and how Mervis deals with his job as a Necromancer for Sylvanas. Dry and dark humor, rated T for suggestive images and blood. Now a two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**An in-depth look at the mechanics and purpose of Mervis Borningtons' job as a Necromancer. I hope you enjoy, and please, don't hesitate to review or let me know if I've got a spelling mistake or something in here that doesn't quite make sense. **

**I own none of this, but the concepts are my own. It's all conjecture, so feel free to make fun of it (^_^)**

* * *

"Get on with it." The burly Deathguard ushered Mervis forward with a hard shove. He stumbled and actually fell into the corpse. He immediately gagged, pushing himself off the carcass while trying to hold back the bile threatening to spurt from his gullet. He pinched his nose shut, gasping.

"This-uh-this is the one?" In response he felt something sharp jab him in the back, and he gave a yelp. He scowled back at the Deathguard. "Don't rush me, or I'll mess it up. Now stand back, and stop bothering me." The Deathguard blinked at the sudden authority in his voice, but nonetheless did as he was asked. It didn't do to question the Necromancers-not when they were in a class all their own of skills, personality, and mindset. Almost like their own _species._

Mervis? Probably one of the more stable of the bunch. There were others, though, who cackled as they chewed on their rotting fingers before beginning a resurrection. Mervis himself shuddered when he thought of Tyous, his Master, before he'd died; he was worse than that by far, doing things like _screwing_ the bodies before he brought them back to unlife.

Perishing the thoughts of the deranged madman who taught him his trade, Mervis unpinched his nose and let the wretched smell enter his nostrils as he pulled the body away from the wall. There were other bodies here, strewn about, as the Pile always had, but apparently _this_ one was the one Sylvannas wanted pulled back into unlife, for however long he could manage it. Probably had some vital information or something-but it was not his place to judge. Mervis pulled it aways, and then dropped it abruptly, as soon as he had enough space to work the ritual, and went back to clamping his nose shut with two fingers.

The parts required for a resurrection could vary on the purpose, method, and _path_ of resurrection. For the purpose, it could vary from bringing a loved one back to life, or raising someone to fight for you, or as Mervis assumed this situation to be, for information-gathering.

The method? That could change too. You could use a blood sacrifice, or something. You could skin someone alive, and transfer their life force. Or, you could do what Mervis was about to do, and go through the age old practice of chanting words known only to _demons_ and force one _of_ those demons into the body, pulling it back to life for as long as he could bind it. A method he was specialized in, and _very_ good at.

And lastly, the _path_ of which you want the resurrected party to take. The Living, typically priests, or-or _druids,_ or even those _shamans_ will go for the path of a "Full-Life" resurrection. That means every piece is brought back. The soul, the spirit (yes, those _are_ two separate things), the flesh-any that was taken away, I mean-and of course, the _mind,_**permanently.** Now for Mervis' _purpose_ this was both too much work and a waste of time; those resurrections took weeks, sometimes months, and offerings to Gods-Gods which he held no belief in. And besides, he had no need for _permanence_ as the bodies ran out of use after the job was over. So, he forces the resurrected party to walk the path of "Half-Life." This means he's putting them on the brink of life and death, where at the break of his concentration they will fall back to a pile of flesh, and no more. This method works for his purpose; _after-death interrogations. _There is one final path, though, that Mervis himself walks: "Un-Life." There's only one way to accomplish this, and that's through _very_ ancient relics, very _evil_ relics, such as the Frostmourne, or-or something like the Frozen Throne, or a permanent-demonic-residence or-bah, it's too complicated, and not worth the research, or the time, when no _very ancient _or _very evil_ relics are nearby and able to be tampered with.

Back to the present, where Mervis had begun chanting. He only needed one hand to guide the words, which was good, because the smell was over_powering_. You would think, perhaps, a being of undeath would not mind smell other, well, _dead-things._ Mervis, unlike so many of his comrades, _still-had-a-nose-with-which-to-smell._ So, he was a bit more sensitive to the stench. It was why he wore cologne, and why anyone else who could smell always thought he smelled bad. "Better than smelling like rotting flesh," he'd say.

The words he spoke literally took shape when they came from his mouth, turning into glowing purple runes that floated in mid-air as he ushered them down to the floor with his hand. He drew the circle while still chanting, walking a ring around the body with his finger on the ground, tracing the line out and leaving a etching of purple flames wherever his finger touched. It was good that he needed no lungs to breathe, otherwise he'd have run out of breath long, _long _ago.

Now comes the part he loathes; releasing his nose and letting that god-awful sickening smell of putrid foulness enter his nose once more, he brought his hands together in a loud and hollow sounding clap. Then with one hand he reached out and placed a palm on the chest of the corpse, the other hand to the forehead, continuing to speak. He called out to the demon he would use, sending word to the Twisting Nether. Seven seconds passed, and the demon received his message. Another seven seconds, and the demon sent a reply, maddening language of demonic origin intruding into Mervis' mind like a snake piercing his cortex. That demon didn't want to come. Cursing inwardly, Mervis tried again, switching which hand went where, calling to a different demon.

Fourteen seconds passed and he received a reply; the second demon would come. He would have breathed a sigh of relief but he had no time, as he sent the instructions for the demon to snatch the soul of the-he glanced downwards at the crotch of the corpse-man before him. Now, the part that he doesn't loathe, but is oh _so_ difficult. A common misconception to those outside the tiny society of demonic necromancy is that you ask one demon. Well, no, you have to ask until you find someone to fetch the soul, and that, in Mervis' experience, has taken as many as thirty-six tries at one go; the person he'd been trying to resurrect? A child. Always harder to find demons willing to chase after the children, since they float faster than the rest. But anyways, it wasn't just _one_ demon you had to get a good answer from. It was _**four. **_As soon as he'd received confirmation from the first he'd already begun sending out more messages, not even bothering to wait for replies as he called demon after demon, going through the _Encyclopedia Daemonica_ in his head for more and more names.

What is the reason four demons are required? There are four things to be caught, obviously. The first: The soul. He'd already asked someone to do that, and someone else, _thank the Dark Lady,_ had already obliged to fetch the second thing: the spirit. You want to know the difference between the soul and spirit, alright then, the _soul_ is what we _are,_ it's...what lets us have a binding to higher beings. Everyone says "_Spirits be with you"_ in all those languages, but its actually "_Soul be bound to you"_, or at least it was, until a shaman by the name of Orebus several millennia ago said it wrong at a conference and then _everyone_ started saying it wrong-forget it, not going to waste time with an explanation. The spirit is _willpower._ Motivation to _live_, what keeps us strong in our _mind_, which is the fourth thing to retrieve, skipping over the third which is _flesh._ But spirit is-it's _more_ than just willpower, its the _ability_ to _have_ willpower. It's complicated, I know, please, try to comprehend what I say with your feeble little brain.

The _flesh_ is actually the easiest thing to get a demon to agree to; they get to _eat_ it after. They float down to the bottom of the Nether-believe me, it is not actually a bottomless chasm-and yank the specific pieces of vital body parts from the piles and piles that lay there. See, to get a demon to agree to this whole retrieval and bringing the pieces of a life back to the Necromancer there are _payments._ For the one which retrieves _flesh,_ already answered that. For the one who retrieves the _soul,_ they receive one of the Necromancer's captured souls from a Soul-Gem, which Mervis has to raise into the air and "hold out" to the demon with one hand when the Soul is brought to him and held into the body of the corpse. The soul of the corpse fades back into the Nether once the interrogation is completed, so it cleans itself up. The one who retrieves the _spirit_ gets a bit of the Necromancer's own will to live; this is one of the many, _many_ reasons that the Living can not perform _Necromantica Daemonica:_ they can run out of that will. But beings of unlife such as Mervis have an _undying_ will to live, so the demon can take as much as they want, and eat their fill.

Mervis, at this point, is sweating so hard that he can barely hold the Soul-Gem up as the demon crunches down on it and wrenches it from his grasp. The Deathguard behind him, not used to witnessing Necromancy, jumped, startled. Now comes the part which Mervis is...saddened by.  
The fourth, and final demon which must be spoken to, after the _spirit_ has been pushed back into the body by another demon only moments after the Soul-Gem was taken from his grasp by _another_ demon, and then after the flesh has been neatly sutured back to the body, _by another demon_, arrives now. Mervis is the only one in the world aware of its presence, but its presence is the one that is oh so terrifying and all-encompassing that he begins to shiver and quake just at the feeling of its arrival. It is _visible-_only to him-in all its demonic glory. A wraith with horns sticking out from all over it, no hands to speak of but only knife-like claws in their place, eyes that glow like red lightning and a deep, _deep_ laughter that makes Mervis' hands twitch even as he ushers it closer.

No, Mervis is not scared, however it may seem that way. He is depressed. So overwhelmingly depressed as the demon reaches out with one of those knife-like claws and pierces into his mind (no, that _isn't_ a metaphor), wrenching out a small piece of his personality, his memories, his..._him._ He knows what he's forgot; the numbers 10, 11, and 12, where he had sent a letter three days ago, what his favorite color was...These things can all be learned once more, and are of no major consequence. But the demon always takes one thing, one thing _permanently,_ and he can never learn it again. The first time it was how to wink. It may seem inconsequential, but from that point on Mervis couldn't even close his eyes to sleep. He couldn't look away no matter how much he wanted _not_ to look at something. The second time It'd been how to shake hands. The third...the fourth, the fifth, another piece of him was stolen. _Another bit of the __**life**_ _that he'd tried so, __**so**_ _hard to reclaim, __**gone.**_Never to be done again. And each time it got worse.

This time, he forgot how to smile. A permanent scowl now etched his features, even as the demon drifted over to the body, placing its knife-claws against the corpse's forehead. Never again would he show a cheery expression, never make a "happy-face". Oh, the woes of the daemonic Necromancer. But it was worth it in the end; he got to bring people back to life. He got paid. Had a job, a _purpose_ in his life. He wasn't one for being social anyways, why should he care? In fact, he always held a secret desire in his heart that the demon would take away his sense of smell the next time around. Enough of that, though, as the ritual had been completed; all the pieces had come together, and the purple flames of the circle grew larger and then _spewed forth_ from the ground, shooting up around him and the corpse. His breath hitched in his throat as the carcass took its _own_ first breath of half-life.

"What-what-"It stuttered, unable to understand what or where or who or how or _anything_ in its situation. They were always like that at first. Mervis rolled his eyes and pressed his finger to the forehead, reactivating the consciousness. The dazed and glazed eyes became clear instantly, and the man blinked. "Who are you? And what's going on?" Mervis nodded, satisfied, but before he could say anything he was shoved roughly to the side, almost breaking his concentration. The corpse twitched, but the demon's held their places and kept the pieces together, thank the Dark Lady; who was standing in front of the corpse now. Mervis hadn't been shoved aside by her, for she actually held him in high favor and wouldn't do such a thing, but by one of her personal Dark Ranger guard. _They_ loathed him, even though he couldn't remember doing anything to cause such foul feelings-or perhaps one of the demons memory wipes had gotten the better of him. He shrugged inwardly, and stood back up, glaring at the Dark Elf who had pushed him.

"You damn near broke my concentration." he muttered, audible to everyone in the room. Sylvannas herself sent a glance his direction, causing him to freeze for a moment, but she turned back to the corpse, and he turned his mind inwards, ignoring the looks of distrust and hate he received from the Dark Rangers as he focused on binding all the demons to their places.

"Daryl Middian, how good of you to join us." The Dark Lady spoke, icy tone lowering the temperature in the room. The man gasped in recognition-the memories took a few moments to kickstart, and Mervis wasn't feeling up to pressuring the demon to hurry up.

"You damn Dark Elf _Bitch!" _He shouted, pointing a finger. "I almost had my way out of this damned Forsaken _Hell-Hole_ and then one of your abominations turns me into mincemeat! And now you've got me resurrected, what, to interrogate me?! I won't tell you a thing!" The Dark Lady, to her credit, showed no sign of anger, nor irritance, nor anything. She simply reached out with two fingers and poked him in the arm. The skin shattered, blood spewing everywhere, and bone beneath broke. It fell off to the floor. Mervis twitched in irritation; this was when the job started getting repetitive, and very, _very_ annoying-if the resurrected party was stubborn, that is. He let his mind back outwards with an automatic mantra in his head binding the demons to their posts, and then he stomped on the ground and brought his hands together, interlacing his fingers. The mans arm flew up from the ground, re-affixing itself to his shoulder, mending itself, and his screams stopped. Only Mavis felt the third demon move-everyone else thought it was just an arm floating and fixing itself.

"For as long as it takes to get the information, I will do this to you. And only when you have told me everything I wish to know, you will die." The man, Daryl, frowned, mirroring Mervis' expression.

"And I'll have to keep fixing you..." Mervis muttered, waving a hand, scowl deepening slightly. He leaned against the wall with arms crossed, sneering back at one Dark Ranger in particular who kept giving him the evil eye. After the threat Sylvannas made, promising untold pain for an untold amount of time, the man started spouting nonsensical knowledge about everything he knew, ranging from King Varian Wrynn's birthday to when his sister had her child to what type of cake he enjoyed. But once Sylvannas silenced him and began asking specific, _specific_ questions, he answered with mild hesitation.

"You want to know what Wrynn plans in the coming months with Greymane?" Slyvannas only nodded slightly. The man shrugged. "I was no high ranking official, I cannot tell you much."

"Tell me what you know, then." She said, icy tone as cold as ever. Daryl flinched.

"Three weeks." The man said, holding up three fingers. "He'll be sending a human and worgen patrol to Trisfal in three weeks." The Dark Lady turned around, making a several complicated hand signs no one but the Dark Rangers understood. Then she turned to Mervis.

"That's all." She said, sending shivers down Mervis' spine when he was directly spoken to. He sighed, pushing himself off the wall, and brought his hands together in a _loud_ clap, and then waved with his right hand. The demons all faded; one taking with him the _soul _from the Soul-Gem already eaten, one already having slaked his hunger on Mervis' _spirit,_ another taking with it the entire body of Daryl Middian, and the last, running off with Mervis' ability to smile. He nodded at Sylvannas, and she stalked out of the room, leaving Mervis standing there with a Deathguard standing next to him. He looked over at the guard, who flinched when Mervis lunged towards him and punched him in the face.

"That's for shoving me earlier, you twat!" The Necromancer shouted, then stormed out of the room. The Deathguard rubbed his nose, staring at Mervis' back as he left. Yes, there were some insane, nut-jobs who shared Mervis' profession, and he was one of the more stable of the bunch. But he had his moments of moodiness. He had _his_ skills, to call forth demons from the Nether to aid in the resurrection of a corpse. _His_ personality, which was slowly fading away with every summoning. And _his_ mindset, _his_ outlook on his unlife, which was very, very bleak, and very, very _smelly. _


	2. Chapter 2

"_Merviiiiiiis!"_ The shout, no, _screech_, pulled Mervis out of his reverie. He glanced up from the book, letting the screech play over and over again in his mind.

"Who do I know who has that voice..." He mumbled, closing the book and tossing it to his side. As he stood up he froze, realization flooding his mind. "S-Sylvanas." He groaned, immediately running forward and opening the door of his quarters. He raced down the corridor passing adventurers and guards and members of the Apothecary as he skidded on his shoes and slid around the corner only to bump straight into a familiar Dark Ranger-but not the one who had let loose a banshee wail for him. Both undead narrowed their eyes.

"Teresa."

"Necromancer Filth." Mervis would have quirked an eyebrow, but he'd lost that ability too. "The Dark Lady has called for you, probably to pull some corpse back to life for a few minutes. Maybe the demons will take away your ability to exist next. That'd be nice." Instead of receiving some comeback as she expected she got slapped across the face and before she could pull her bow out she had an angry undead man screaming at her in a language she didn't know. Then he stormed off. She put a hand to her face and frowned as he stomped towards the Apothecarium, shouting at people as he passed them. Necromancers were a feisty bunch, especially the Demonic Necromancers like him; Mervis might be one of the better of the group, but he was prone to violent outbursts and lapses in memory just like the rest of them. And, like the lot of them, he had a job to do, and he was the best in all of Undercity and _Azeroth_ at it.

The guards at the entrance to Sylvanas chambers eyed him for a moment before stepping aside. As he entered he could see the Dark Lady herself pacing around on her elevated platform. She was looking away when he began walking up towards her. But he heard a sudden intake of air, a loud, _loud_ intake of air that signified something _very_ painful about to happen if he didn't stop it.

"I'm here!" He cried, waving his arms as he ran over to her. She snapped her jaw shut and turned to him, eyes leering into him like a hawk looking down at its next bit of food. A hiss escaped her nostrils and a gale flowed through the room out her nose, cartoonish and yet horrifying at the same time; Mervis dreaded the thought of the state his ears would be in if she'd managed to let out a banshee scream with him this close.

"Mervis." Her voice was still loud.

"At your service." She didn't acknowledge him speaking, only turning away from him and walking across the platform towards a dead body on the floor, Mervis following close behind with his hands wringing together. She usually said "Greetings, Necromancer." Or some high-class sounding stuff like that. But she didn't. She was either angry, or in a deathly serious mood, a non-intentional and _very_ scary pun.

The body was mangled. Its head was missing, as were the legs and its left arm. The rib cage was spread wide and all the organs were slipping out. Mervis surveyed it for a moment, clamped a hand over his nostrils, and stepped forward to poke it with a bony finger and test the consistency of the intestinal tract.

"It'll be hard for me to work with such a small body, third wants flesh and it won't get much of it..." He muttered to himself in a nasally voice.

"You won't be resurrecting this body." His head snapped up and he turned to scowl at Sylvanas.

"What do you mean I 'won't be resurrecting this body'?! I come here and you don't even have anything for me to do, you ungrateful skank!" He shouted, shaking a fist. The Dark Lady didn't bat an eye.

"You'll be resurrecting what lays in the ribcage." Mervis would have blinked, but he just turned back to the body.

"What lays in the ribcage..." he murmured, holding his nose and pulling on a rib to reveal something he hadn't noticed. Frowning more than usual he shoved a hand in and wrenched out whatever it was. "A...cat?" Mervis asked in disbelief. Sure, there were only bits and pieces and the head was falling off, but a cat is a cat no matter if it's a deader than dead cat or a yowling and meowing live one. He turned back to Sylvanas and raised his cat-holding hand. "You pull me away from my novella, _my_ **Black Book** and you want me to pull a eviscerated _feline_ back to half-life so you can interrogate it?! How the _nuts_ are you gonna-" He froze, cat swinging back and forth in his grip. "You learned to talk like a cat?"

"No." The Dark Lady said, expression as solid as ice. "The 'feline' has the scent of the person we need to find." Mervis just stared at the lump of flesh and bone in his hand.

"And you couldn't get one of the initiate Necromancers to take care of this? You don't need a demonic resurrection for a _cat,_ it doesn't work like that! There is no _spirit, _nor _mind!_"

"Let me put it to you plainly, Necromancer Thinbones." Mervis cringed. He hated his last name. It reflected his own weakness too well, and Sylvanas only used it when she was either angry or disciplinary. "I want you to do this because I want _you_ to do it_._" The temperature dropped a few degrees. "There is only so much patience a Ranger can have, living or no. You study other Necromancy than Daemonic; that is your specialty, but not your limited field. Surely you can do something so simple-or would you believe those initiates better than you?" With a wet squelching sound the lump fell to the floor. Mervis watched it fall, and then glared at Sylvanas.

"Don't insult me." He said, pulling a knife from his robes and splitting it across one of his palms before clapping them together over the cat. A dark purple circle appeared on the ground instantly, and within a few moments the cat was on its feet, meowing in gurgles and hisses, staring up at him with one eyeball falling out of its head. "You smell terrible, cat." It hissed. "You'll die when I want you to. You alright with that?"

Sylvanas watched the verbal exchange-Necromancer insulting and cat hacking gurgling noises out of its broken vocal chords.

"Don't look at me like that with those beady little eyes. I always hated cats, you know. You always seemed too damn curious for your own good." He pointed a finger at the cat, and it shook with tremors. "Curiosity killed you, and I pulled you back from death itself! So, suck on that, reality!" he shouted, sticking a middle finger up towards the ceiling. Mervis suddenly felt something against his leg and looked down. "What the fuck are you doing? Are you trying to shit on my shoes? I'll kill you if you do, I don't care what the dumb Dark Elf does to me." Sylvanas let her lips twitch downwards at that one, but she knew she had to keep up the mask.

"Thinbones." He glanced up from the cat currently rubbing its bare skull against his robes.

"Eh?"

"Let it sniff this." She held out a hand and Mervis reached out and took a small piece of cloth from it.

"Cat." Said cat stopped putting its face against his shoe and looked up at him. "Can you still smell? I mean, you smell pretty bad, so I think you'd have your nose clogged or something if you weren't dying from how bad you smelled." He dropped the cloth to the floor. "Clear out those nostrils and sniff, feline! _Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiff_!" he cried, taking a dramatic pose over the cat that now nibbled at the cloth.

"This is a letdown." Sylvanas muttered.

"Oh?" Mervis asked. "Then where's it going?" Sylvanas and Mervis both shot after the cat as it zoomed off the platform and down the hall. The Dark Lady had an easier time chasing it, but Mervis' legs weren't exactly stable for long running. "Why the hell is a _cat_ acting like this? Aren't dogs supposed to do this stuff?" He called out from behind.

"Undead dogs are all feral. The cats become smarter. I'd thought a Necromancer of your rank would know that?"

"Don't insult me!" Mervis cried after her. "If I didn't have to follow you to decompose that cat after whatever it is it's doing, I'd walk away, _right_ now!" He kept murmuring something but Sylvanas paid no attention, focused on the little undead fur ball skittering across the cobble sewer streets of Undercity. They shot into the Trade Quarter and up the stairs to the second, then third level. Mervis caught up with Sylvanas as the cat began to slow down, pittering its feet in a slow cat-trot as it approached a particular Forsaken.

"A cat?" Tawny mused, blinking yellow eyes as she looked down at the feline of unlife approaching her. Then she felt a cold, dark, and most unfriendly presence bear down on her. "L-Lady Windrunner?!" she shrieked, stepping backwards.

"Miss Grisette. The mushroom vendor..." Sylvanas stated. A faint, almost unnoticeable smile appeared on her face, one that both Tawny and Mervis noticed, however.

"Oh, the Ice Queen can move her lips upwards?" Mervis asked, rubbing his chin like a philosopher would. "I always speculated on whether it was possible-" A throwing knife imbedded itself in the wall, the _stone_ wall, just three inches beside his head. "I'll be quiet now." Sylvanas turned back to Tawny, who was shaking with thoughts of what could possibly make the Dark Lady smile.

"You sell mushrooms." Sylvanas stated once again. "You wouldn't happen to know what kind of mushroom would cause a person to _explode,_ would you?"

"I don't know what you're-"

"Miss Grisette, would you be so kind as to identify this mushroom?" She reached into her satchel and pulled out a mushroom with a faint ethereal glow around it. But Mervis noticed something else.

"Why's it got a stasis charm around it?"

"To keep it from exploding." Tawny whispered, stepping back once more. Sylvanas tossed the mushroom into the air and glared at Tawny as it flew upwards.

"I had one of my Rangers search your stock. They found this mushroom. Among other things. And upon testing with corpses we found that this mushroom caused the death of Eunice Burch. I didn't know you could convince a druid to willingly give away such destructive fungi. But, that is a mystery I'll leave for the truly dead to wonder about." The mushroom fell back into Sylvanas hand. "Tawnty Grisette, I sentence you to death, by exploding mushroom, for crimes against the Banshee Queen."

With a hard shove Tawny was on the floor, and the Queen of Forsaken straddled her chest, pulling her mouth open by her nose and shoving a mushroom into her throat. Clamping the jaws shut, Sylvanas motioned for Mervis to come over. "After she explodes I want you to resurrect her and we can question her for motive."

"I don't mean to sound like some scum asking for equal rights, but shouldn't we prove that she actually killed Eunice, and didn't just sell the mushroom?" Sylvanas tore her eyes away from the person struggling beneath her and stared at Mervis.

"Did you just have a lucid moment?"

"I don't remember. Is there a time when that mushroom blows up, or do you want your arms to go with the explosion?" The Dark Lady muttered a curse under her breath and bolted upwards, grabbed Mervis by the arm, swung another to pick up the cat, and ran as fast as she could. Tawny could only wish the mushroom tasted better when her body parts were strewn all over the hallway, her arm falling into the green sewage and her brains coating the back of Mervis robes. He, the cat, and Sylvanas were currently in one big pile on the floor, cat purring as it rubbed against Mavis' crooked nose and Sylvanas underneath them both, staring up at Mervis face as he hissed at the cat before him.

"Necromancer, if you don't get off me in the next two seconds, I'll-" He was already off. The cat, however, wasn't. It sat on her chest and let out a gurgled meow, then licked her chin. It took all of Sylvanas might not to let her expression change, but she was _incredibly_ thrilled to have such a darling undead beast cuddle against her. _"C-Cute!"_ She thought. But before it could further express affection Mervis snatched it up by the ears and turned it so it looked him in the eyes.

"Now, just to send you back where you came from-"

"No." Mervis turned to look at Sylvanas, twirling the cat's ears so it looked at her also.

"Eh?"

"You won't decompose that cat." Sylvanas stood up and stared into Mervis' eyes. "You won't." Mervis turned the cat back to face him, and then turned back at Sylvanas.

"Begging a pardon, Missus Darkness, but _why?"_ He pinched his nose, as though realizing the stench for the first time. "It smells worse than Tawny Splattered-All-Over-The-Walls."

"Then you'd better get some nose plugs, because the cat is going to stay with you." The shocked, or as close to shock as Mervis could express, made Sylvanas lip twitch. She couldn't care for the little furball, not with all her duties. And she had just the lynchpin that would be able to force Mervis to do what she wanted.

"I'm not taking a stinking-"

"You don't have a familiar, do you?" Mervis mouth hung open for a moment as he tried to form words.

"I don't need-" he finally managed, but was cut off again.

"I hear everyone else spreading rumors that you're the only Necromancer without a familiar. Isn't that a bit odd? You're the odd one out, Thinbones." Mervis face contorted as much as it could-his jaw tightened and his nose wrinkled.

"Well…" He looked back at the cat. "I suppose I can make it do my laundry, or something." Sylvanas held back her whoop of joy for another occasion, but as she turned and started towards a guard to request aid in retrieving Tawny-All-Over-The-Walls he continued. "Why was a cat in the dead guy's ribcage, anyways?"

She turned back.

"I don't have an answer for that. Once again, a question for the truly dead to ponder."


End file.
